


Hubris

by ErinNovelist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Animagus, Betrayal, Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Character Study, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Good Peter, Hurt/Comfort, Marauders Friendship, Marauders' Era, POV Peter Pettigrew, Redemption
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-07
Updated: 2015-08-07
Packaged: 2018-04-13 11:45:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4520688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ErinNovelist/pseuds/ErinNovelist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>People always asked how Peter was sorted into Gryffindor, how he became an animagus, why the Marauders were his friends, why he betrayed them all. Well, this is the reason...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hubris

**Author's Note:**

> This is my take on what really happened with Peter Pettigrew and why he betrayed the Potter family. It follows Peter from the very first meeting with the Marauders to the end of the Deathly Hallows. This tries to paint a legitimate picture of what actually happened, so all events should be canon compliant.

 

There had to be a reason.

Nearly two decades before, one man had set into play a series of events without any knowledge of what the outcome would be. Do not, under any circumstances, confuse this as a thoughtless act because, for the three years prior, he had spent every waking moment thinking about the potential consequences of his actions.

It wasn’t without cause, and there most certainly was a reason.

The choice was still made though.

On a blistery Halloween night, when the October moon hung low over a deserted graveyard as the twilight hour approached, this scared and broken man knelt before the person who would eventually ruin his simple, but by no means content, life. This person would destroy everything he had once held dear, and by that time, you could say he already had done that himself.

On that All Hallow’s Eve, Peter Pettigrew knelt before Lord Voldemort—a wizard he had once sworn to bring to justice for his horrific deeds. A light mist fell upon the reluctant servant and his deceitful master, and Peter’s fingers dug into the mud, dirt slipping beneath his nails, as icy tremors shook his body. His bright blue eyes stared in horror at the ground beneath him as he gasped for breath, shoulders heaving forward as he drew in heaps of oxygen, the air like sweet nectar for his burning lungs.

“Come now, Wormtail. Surely you can say a few little words.”

He stilled, forlorn and silent in the shadow of Lord Voldemort, and refused to meet the elder’s gaze. “N-No, I can’t.”

“You _can't_ or you _won't_?”

“…I will _not_.”

“So be it.  _Crucio!"_

Everything exploded around him. The pain thrummed through his body as easily as blood coursed through his veins, his heart hammering in his chest and stealing away his right to even think. When it was all over, a barrage of sobs escaped him. He couldn’t catch his breath; he wasn’t even sure he wanted to breathe. Peter’s head throbbed from Voldemort’s attempts at persuasion, and his heart threatened to jump out of his chest. A thin trail of blood trickled out of his mouth, painting his face like a scarlet teardrop, and his whole world came to a thundering halt.

“Tell me where the Potters are!”

_I have to protect them. Protect my friends. Protect my family._

“No!”

_“Crucio!”_

“I w-won’t! I won—!” he cried, words cutting off with a plaintive whine as the streak of red light soared across the field and struck him square in the chest.

Peter could only scream and scream. The air around him crackled with magic and smelt faintly of burning hair and flesh. He could taste it on the tip of his tongue, buried deep within his lungs, a bubble of death that would slowly but surely suffocate him. A part of him wondered if he was _actually_ on fire; he wouldn’t put it past the other wizard. When the pain finally receded, a wave of ice crashed over him, cooling his burning, frayed nerves, until he was left shivering on dead knees.

_Protect, protect, protect. My friends, my family._

Before he could enjoy the brief reprieve, Voldemort strode forward, clutching the servant’s face in his hand, and pressed the tip of his wand in the hollow of Peter’s throat. Peter’s own hands scrambled at the wizard’s white-knuckled grip, dirt-stained fingers clawing into the pale skin of the other, but he did not draw blood. No matter how many attacks they launched, how many attacks they thwarted, Voldemort would simply not _bleed._

The older wizard’s features hardened, showcasing the demonic hell that Peter had fallen into, and he whispered softly, “Your father’s blood is on your hands, Wormtail. Who else shall die for you today?”

_Protect! Protect! My job is to protect them!_

A low noise escaped Peter. It was something so small, so swift, just a quick, panicked intake of air that was desperate and confused and downright _terrified_. A part of him wondered just how he could sound so fractured, but the mighty had truly fallen. There was no heroic James to save him, no head-strong Sirius to front him, and no loyal Remus to support him. For the first time in many years, Peter Pettigrew was all alone.

“N-No!” he croaked out in a hoarse voice. “You said it was Alastor! _You said Alastor killed him_!”

His muscles coiled under the pale, cold hand, and the older wizard hadn’t much time to react as Peter bucked out, his limbs flailing to and fro as he struggled against any forces that tried to stop him from ripping out Voldemort’s throat. The wind whistled past his ears, whipping his thoughts into a frenzy, and all he wanted to do was to spill Voldemort’s blood. He wanted to crack open his ribcage, snap the bones like tree branches, and _kill_ him.

“You defied me, Wormtail. I warned you: resistance will not be tolerated. You failed, and your father paid the price. Now, your mother, on the other hand—”

_Protect them. My friends, my mother. I have to protect them!_

Peter’s world dissolved into broken shards, shapes and colors shifting as he pried Voldemort’s hand off of his neck. He landed on the hard ground with a soft thunck, pushing himself up on shaky hands and knees as he searched for his wand, knowing that Voldemort had disarmed him the moment he had scurried into the graveyard, so the wand was bound to be by the rusted gate. As he scrambled to find his only form of defense though, his fingers itched _to run, to hide, to get away_. Fear squirmed beneath his skin, and he longed to transform back into a rat.

But he couldn’t.

_My friends, my mother. I have to protect them! Keep them safe!_

“Oh, Wormtail,” Voldemort said. Crisp autumn leaves crackled beneath his bare feet as he ambled slowly towards the panting animagus. “The Dark Lord forgives. If you repent, if you simply tell me where the Potters are, you’d be welcomed back with open arms. Come now, Wormtail, you haven’t strayed too far yet. There’s still time to come back.”

His search intensified as he dug through the dry grass and dirt, tangled his fingers in the overgrown weeds, and scraped his knuckles over crumbling headstones. Finally, his hand trailed over a well-worn 10¾ yew wand made with a unicorn hair core, and he gripped it tightly, nails digging into the heel of his palm. Taking a deep breath, he rolled onto his side and whipped his arm towards Voldemort, a bright white light flying towards the dark wizard.

Peter stared at the spot Lord Voldemort once stood, now a sooty mark among the yellowed grass. “I killed him,” he murmured, and it was almost too good to be true. It was almost unfathomable, impossible—he couldn’t quite process it, couldn’t understand—

“I am a patient man, Wormtail, but even my patience has a limit.”

_Wormtai_ l, the voice in his mind jeered. _Only James and Sirius call you that._ And Lord Voldemort knew that. He chose to address Peter by the name his friends had bestowed upon him, just to remind Peter of his choices and their consequences.

“Last chance. I will not be kind this time.”

“N-No. I refuse.” _Protect them. Protect my friends, my mother. Keep them safe. That’s my duty. That’s my job._

“You’ve never given me a reason to doubt you, Wormtail.” Voldemort suddenly appeared behind him, and with a flick of his wrist, sent Peter sprawling against a nearby tomb stone. “You’ve always been loyal to me, in the end, and I don’t understand why this time should be any different. You attacked Black on my orders, you planted the seed of Lupin’s betrayal, so why should the Potter boy be any different?”

Peter hissed through gritted teeth, holding a trembling hand to his aching ribs, and tried to regain his bearings. Any sound of Voldemort’s approach had been drowned by his own racing thoughts, each one ringing through his head like the bell from the Quidditch pitch after a goal.

Voldemort, without waiting for a response, leveled his wand with Peter’s wide eyes. “Last chance, Wormtail.”

“Go ahead,” he sneered, the hysteria settling in. His eyes flashed wildly as he glared at the older wizard, ducking his head as if presenting a challenge. “How long will it take to get it through your thick, blood head? I will never tell you the location of James and Lil— _GAH_!”

The red streak came without warning. It lasted longer than ever.

When it was over, Peter’s world began to turn slippery. His arms gave out beneath him, and his head thrummed in agony. He gritted his teeth together against the pain and seized his strength, defiance filtering through his body, and he tried to rise again.

“Wormtail, it’s a simple choice. Tell me where the Potters are, and I’ll stop.” Voldemort’s words were hard and bitter, even though they were uttered in the soft and saccharine tone.

Fear trickled through his body like poison, his pulse rapidly increasing and spreading it through his veins. He dreaded what would become of him should it reach his heart. He couldn’t breathe; he couldn’t move. He was drowning in a sea of despair, unable to break to the surface. Something inside of him screamed out at this.

Of all the confrontations he’d had with Voldemort in the past three years, all of the pain he’d suffered and tears he’d shed, why was this one so different?

Dumbledore had assured Peter that, should Lord Voldemort get a hold of him, the dark wizard wouldn’t be able to torture the secret out of him (but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t _try)_. Being a Secret Keeper was the only thing that was keeping Peter from crashing under pressure. The secret was only at risk should he voluntarily choose and actually _mean_ to reveal it. Even if the pain was too great and the location slipped out, the magic wouldn’t let him.

So long as he didn’t _want_ to give it, Voldemort was in the dark.

_Protect them. Protect them. I will protect them_.

“No,” he gasped out brokenly. “I _w-won’t_.”

_“Crucio.”_

The red light flashed across the graveyard, and before he could react, it nailed him in the chest. Peter thrashed and wailed, squirming among the weeds and dirt, banging his fists against the tombstones. The rock crumbled beneath his fingers. His throat was raw. His voice was growing hoarse.

_PROTECT THEM. PROTECT THEM_.

When Voldemort lowered his wand, Peter sunk downwards, clenching his torso in pain, moaning as a rush of vertigo hit him. He could hear the dark wizard’s footsteps scruff across the leaves again, the sinister chuckle reverberating through his pounding head, and he wanted it all to stop.

He had to find his wand. He had to be Wormtail. He had to get away.

_For once in your life, Pettigrew, running away might be a good thing_. His thoughts whirled, fast and furious, and he could barely keep up with them. _It’ll keep them safe. Forget about being a bloody hero and killing Voldemort. Do what Sirius and Dumbledor told you. Run and hide. Get away from Voldemort!_

“Where are the Potters?”

_WAND. WORMTAIL. RUN. PROTECT._

“Go to _hell_!”

_“Crucio.”_

The red light came again. It didn’t let up until Peter was sobbing.

_WAND. WORMTAIL. RUN. PROTECT._

A shiver ran down Peter’s spine, and he fought even harder. The world was spiraling on an invisible axis as Voldemort pulled him to his feet and threw him over a row of tombstones. He cracked his head against the edge of a rock, and Peter couldn’t tell if he was bleeding or crying. After a while, the blood and tears were too intertwined to unravel.

“Wormtail—”

“NO! NO!”

_“CRUCIO!”_

The force of the spell pushed him back into a tombstone. His ribs felt like it was on fire, flames licking at his frayed nerves, and sending his mind into a frenzy. It was like someone had leaked blood into shark-infested waters, causing everything to launch into overdrive. The curse finally lifted, and all Peter could manage was a small whimper. He wasn’t even sure what he was doing anymore.

There was a long reprieve this time.

With great strength, Peter opened his eyes and found himself staring deep into Voldemort’s malicious dark eyes.

_WORMTAIL. PROTECT._

“Even though your loyalities are clearly divided, we can both win, Wormtail. If you tell me where the Potters are, no one—”

_“N-NO!”_

“… _Crucio_.”

Red light. Pain. Screaming.

_PROTECT. P-PRO… P-Protect._

“Your mother, Wormtail. Think of your mother. Doesn’t she mean—”

Peter was unable to stop the image searing into his brain. He could feel the looming darkness hovering over him like a ghost, the threat of the curse like a shadow that he would never be rid of. It sent shivers zigzagging up his neck, but he paid no attention to it. All he could think of was his dear, old mother caught up in the fight she’d tried to hard to avoid. He pictured himself standing over him, blood staining his hands, her skin turning a cool blue and holding a sense of fragility she’d never been in her entire life.

Lord Voldemort would kill her. Just like Papa.

_P-PROTECT. P-Pro… P-Pro… P-P-PAIN._

But then he pictured James.

James Potter, the boy who shared his chocolate frogs and tutored him in Transfiguration—his best friend. James Potter, the man who spat in the face of Lord Voldemort and defied him three times—the war hero. James Potter, the father who just wanted to keep his baby boy safe and trusted Peter to protect them—just a scared man.

_…Pain. P-Pain. P-Pro… P-P-PROTECT._

“N-No.”

_“Crucio!”_

Red light. Pain. Screaming.

_PAIN. PAIN. Pain… P-Protect?_

A dark chuckle was heard over him, and Peter’s heart thundered to a sudden halt. He didn’t dare look up as he knew Voldemort would leer over him, tear open his mind even further. The Cruciatus curse had already turned his whole world slippery, and he struggled to even find a foothold to keep himself from falling.

“I can offer you another choice.”

_PROTECT. PRO—P-Protect?_

“I will spare the Potters.”

_Protect. Protect. PAIN. Protect._

“If you tell me where they are, Wormtail, I will spare their lives. All I want is the boy.”

_PRO_ —( _sweetlittleHarrywhocooessweetnothingsintohisear_ )— _AIN._  

“I will let them live.”

_PAI—(Jamestrustme.Siriustoo.Theybelieveinme.It’smyjobtoprotect.Protectthem)—CT._

“Your mother, your friends.”

_Protect. I promised…to protect._

“They’ll all live.”

_I promised to protect them…._

_…I just never said how._

“Tell me where the Potters are, Wormtail.”

_Protect._


End file.
